


After Moonlight

by Heubristics



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Exceptional Story Spoilers, Friendship, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 07:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17977373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heubristics/pseuds/Heubristics
Summary: It has been a long evening for the Dashing Debunker and the Debonair Sharpshooter. But though they are out of danger, some wounds still hurt.[Mild ending spoilers for the “Noises From Upstairs” Exceptional Story in Fallen London]





	After Moonlight

The nights are dark at the Messidorist Panopticon. There is no moon in Downside, and no stars either: real or false. All that illuminates the gloom is the glow of bioluminescent fungi dappling across stalagmites and stalactites, the faint rippling gleam of phosphorescent beetle swarms, and the sparkle of what light there is reflecting off black rivers. And, dotted around the trails and the obsidian outposts of the Panopticon, lamplight. Were one to look out from the upper terraces of the Panopticon, one might almost believe themselves to be floating amidst a field of dying stars.

Inside the Panopticon’s guest dining room, where Messidor - otherwise known as Hotshot Blackburn, the Debonair Sharpshooter - and the Dashing Debunker are taking their meal, things are brighter. A blazing hearth that was once a sacrificial pit provides warmth and light to the room where priests once prayed to long forgotten gods. Candles grouped in seven-folded candelabras illuminate the heads of strange beasts, mounted on the wall as hunting trophies. Blackburn and the Debunker sit quietly in comfortable chairs across a thickset mahogany dining table, supping on bowls of rat and vegetable stew that had been the Messidorist’s communal dinner course and drinking from goblets of ice-cold filtered Surface water.

Their faces are weary, their mustaches drooping, their limbs heavy and tired. There are small rips and tears in their clothes. The Debunker’s slightly dirt-stained face is lined with tear-trails, while Hotshot sports gauze wrapping across his left cheek to hide a new now-clotted gash. They focus on their food intently to avoid looking each other.

It has been a long night.

At last, the Debunker can take no more of the silence. He sets his spoon down with a clatter and stares at Hotshot. His gaze is slightly unsteady. There is no fire in his eyes, but faded moonlight.

“Why did you do it?”

The other man starts as he is in the middle of drinking. Water goes over his bowl and lap as he coughs. After a few seconds, Hotshot recovers enough to look at the Debunker. It is less noticeable than the Debunker, but his Neathbow-stained eyes are also unfocused.

“What?”

The Debunker hiccups, and then sighs. A face that had stared down the likes of Madam Shoshona now looks like the boy who has just learned his mother has died all over again. “You know what I mean, Blackburn. Why did you- why am I here and not there?”

Hotshot puts his own spoon down. His face is a small frown, the stoic mask of someone who has comforted and then euthanized a treasured companion. He moves his hand to cover the Debunker’s. “Harry, I told you-“

The Debunker shifts his hand away violently. The moonlight in his eyes is brighter. “You told me it was possible. That I could - that I could see her again. And then when I go to do it you pull me away and then-“

“In death, Harry,” Hotshot’s voice is calm, but there is an tremble underneath, “I know what I said. I know you could see her again, if you had done it. But-“

“Then why not let me?”

“You would not have-“

“Then why not let me?!” the Debunker cries, grabbing a fork as if a dagger and pointing it to the other man. “I could have _seen_ her, I could have _warned_ her, she could be in danger and you will have killed her Hotshot, you will have killed my mother and-“

Hotshot stands up, hands clenched. Gant blooms in his eyes, “She is _not your mother_ ,” he says through clenched teeth,”Your mother is dead, Harry! She died! They all die eventually, and you would have joined her!”

“But you said-“

“I know what I said! What we saw was real! But it was _not ours_ , Harry. We could not touch it, we could not grasp it, we did not reach it. You would have died and she would have never known.”

Hotshot sits back down, suddenly aware that both he and the Debunker had put cutlery to the other’s throats. He puts his hands up, in surrender.

“Somewhere in that world there is another Dashing Debunker. Was, maybe, I don’t know. He was hers, and she was his. If I had not stopped you- if I had not stopped you, you would have died. You would have joined your mother. _Your_ mother, not her. And then- and then that would be it. And I can’t-“ his voice has begun to tremble again, “I can’t lose more- I need people on this side fighting. Yes. There are already so many people fighting over there.”

The Debunker has dropped his fork to the table. He sits down too, a puppet with all the strings of his anger and grief severed. His eyes brim with tears. His voice is a whisper. “She’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll never see her again.”

“You will. But not yet.”

The Debunker sips from his water. There is the slightest hint of tears. “I miss her so.”

Hotshot stands up again, somewhat stiffly. He walks around the table, stands next to the Debunker, kneels down. Sable-clad arms wrap the Debunker in a fierce hug. “I know.”

“I don’t know what to do next, Hotshot.”

The two men stay like that for a few moments, and the silence creeps back in. “Live, Harry. We all die eventually, and it only gets worse from there. But while we can, live.”

The Debunker says nothing. Hotshot presses on. “Your mother was a fighter, Harry. She lived, and she fought, and wherever she is now I’m sure she is still fighting. And you did the same.”

“I did?” the Debunker asks softly. He leans into Hotshot’s hug, as though afraid he might fall from his chair otherwise.

“You did. You fought frauds, didn’t you? You exposed liars and predators. You fought for a world where people wouldn’t be conned by those who claimed to speak for the dead.”

The Debunker’s eyes have almost closed. He is very tired. “Was I good?”

Hotshot’s smile is small, but genuine. “I’m informed you were the best.”

They rest there for a while, letting the candles grow smaller and the fire crackle in the hearth. They think of moments in the past: past cases, past victories, past losses. Sometimes there is nothing to be said but to just be in silence with someone else who has been where you have been.

Hotshot breaks the hug after a while, stands up and pats the Debunker on the back. “And you’ll continue to be the best,” he says, “because you’ll keep doing it.”

The Debunker raises his head. His eyes open: blue-hazel. He hiccups. “What?”

Hotshot walks back around to his side of the table and sits down. He takes a long drink of his water. “Keep doing exposes.”

The Debunker stares at him, but now his gaze is steadier. “This was my last case.”

“Was it?”

Now the Debunker raises his arms up to warn Hotshot. “Now I’m not saying that wasn’t an exciting case, Hotshot, but as I told you on the ride up-”

“Mr. Houdini, have I ever told you about what I’ve done?” Hotshot’s tone is lighter now, a mock seriousness in his voice. His eyes glimmer with viric and apocyan. “Did you know that I once exorcised some ghosts at a mansion in the marches, for which the grateful owners gave me the deed as a reward?”

The Debunker quirks an eye. A smile tugs on his lips. “Bullshit.”

Hotshot shakes his head, grinning, “It is the very truth. I’ve been many places and talked to many interesting folks. I’ve lunched with the witches of Hunters Keep and spoken to those which rule beyond the the mirrors. I’ve borne witness to the spirit that lies buried under all wells,” the candles sputter out, then relight, “and have even encountered the Phantom of the Antimacassar.”

The Dashing Debunker laughs. There is genuine warmth in his expression. “Like hell you have, Blackburn! You don’t fool me, you old demagogue. Read some folk stories in a book and decided to fluff yourself up more like for publicity more like. Besides, everybody knows the spinsters at Hunter’s Keep are just that, spinsters who know how lonely zailors get at zee. The ‘magicians’ at Mahogany Hall are nothing more than illusionists that play with lights. Mr. Eaten is the result of unsanitary well-water making people hear things, and the Phantom of the Antimacassar is a nice publicity boost.”

“You don’t believe me?” Hotshot’s voice pretends sadness, but his eyes are merry. He is no longer tired.

“Not at all, friend.” The Debunker beams with the satisfied smirk of one who has uncovered a trick. He is no longer tired.

“Then come with me...” Hotshot rises, holds out a hand for the Debunker to shake. The Debunker rises in turn, and grasps it firmly. The room is light. Outside the room is darkness to be explored, mysteries to be solved and secrets to be found.

“...and prove me wrong.”


End file.
